


Snapshot

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: He works for US Intelligence. She works for the French Resistance. A short farewell on an empty street.





	Snapshot

**Author's Note:**

> Another Slibbs AU, but I couldn't resist when I saw the photo. (Or, more to the point, my wife couldn't resist giving me yet another prompt when SHE saw the photo!)  


The street was quiet and empty, a product of both the early hour and the curfew that Paris had yet to shed despite the lack of Germans to enforce it. Street lights stood lonely in the dark, their bright white lights creating odd, secretive shadows that the fog only made more menacing. His footfall, as light as it was, bounced off the shuttered buildings and into the night. He pulled his wool overcoat tighter against his neck and tilted his hat down to his brow, doing so for warmth and secrecy. He wouldn’t have normally agreed to meet her here, preferring the loud, crowded and well-lit security of clubs like Folies-Belleville or Bobino, but if she wanted to meet him at 3am on an empty street four blocks from Champs de Mars, he wasn’t going to say no.

He found he rarely said no to her these days. (Any days?) Transferred from the Marines to Intelligence- despite his protests- he was her Allied contact for the last 18 months, covertly passing on whatever information she dug up on the movement of the German forces both inside occupied Paris and out. He never asked her where she got the intel; once she proved herself to be the real deal, he didn’t care. He only cared about passing it along, saving lives, doing what was right for his country.

His thoughts paused, knowing something had changed in the 18 months. He didn’t just care about duty; he cared about her. Jacqueline Durand, 40-something (?) seamstress (?) who had a brother (?) in the Resistance. His overcoat absorbed his chuckle. He really didn’t know anything about her at all. Only that he wanted to know more. What he did know was how her brown eyes danced under the Tower, face always tilted up to greet him, even when they were supposed to pretend they didn’t know each other. It was her only ‘tell’, her only weakness. Despite the danger it could have caused, he always looked for it, looked for her, in a crowded room, a busy bridge, an empty street. She was alluringly approachable with her easy smile and warm laugh; he assumed that was how she was able to ferret out information. But she was also maddeningly distant, only allowing people to get _so_ close, figuratively and often, literally. He assumed _that_ was how she was able to stay undercover, to stay alive. He had felt her in his arms only once in 18 months, jostled together in a crowded club, a push that somehow evolved into a dance, slow and close. Startled, she had tensed under his hands, but soon relaxed enough to slide her fingers under his lapels, pulling them both closer. Daringly, he had pressed his lips to her right temple and had been rewarded by a soft sigh. The song ended and they had never gotten that close again, maintaining their cover as two strangers who just happened to cross paths every so often. Their relationship was one of duty and he was surprised at how much the distinction had begun to disappoint him.

A movement half a block ahead caught his attention, diverting his thoughts from the ‘then’ to the ‘now’. Her silhouette was just as recognizable as her smile, and he fought the one that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. While still mindful of their surroundings and any eyes that could be watching, he zeroed in on her, and his step sped up ever so slightly.

“This better be important,” he said, reaching her at last. 

His gruffness didn’t phase her at all. “Why, Sergeant Gibbs? Were you busy?” Her accent was light and teasing.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Busy gettin’ some shut eye. Sleep.”

“I know what it means.” She reached out to touch his coat, and he narrowed his eyes at the unexpected contact. His questioning gaze made her drop hers to his collar. “And this may or may not be important: I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Leaving for where?”

“Home,” she said, slightly amused at how he missed her point. “The Allies are rallying 2 offensive fronts over the next week and my bureau thinks it’s best if I get out of Dodge. Or Paris, as it were.”

Operations _Overlord_ and _Dragoon_ were common knowledge to anyone in the intel business. What surprised him was how it would affect her so directly. What surprised him even more was how her leaving affected him. Amid the horrors and banalities of war, he had gotten used to her being in his life, had grown comfortable in the orbiting they did in each other’s lives. The fact she’d be gone in less than 12 hours felt like a punch to the gut.

“Where’s home?” he managed to grit out.

“California,” she answered. His eyebrows touched his hairline and she laughed. “I only got the accent from living in France for 2 years before I made contact with the French Resistance. I’m from Sacramento.”

He laughed, really laughed, for the first time in ages. The response reverberated down the empty street and a shutter across the street slammed open to see the commotion. Immediately, Gibbs pulled her in and kissed her.

A voice sternly admonished them. “Rentrer chez vous!” it said before slamming the shutters closed again.

She sighed against his lips as their kiss ended, her brown eyes searching his blues. 

Swallowing hard, he said, “They gone?”

The reminder that the kiss was no more than a ploy to maintain their cover seemed to deflate her joy. 

“Yes,” she said, all business as she stepped back. 

“Good. Because I don’t like an audience when I kiss my girl.”

“When you-”

With an arm around her waist, he pulled her back into his body and his mouth. Her hands immediately went around his shoulders, gripping the thick wool and holding on tightly. Her heels weren’t quite enough for her to reach his lips, so she lifted on her toes and brought him down to her. His free hand slid up under her arm and covered her shoulder blade, melding their warmth together as the fog curled around them. Their sighs blended into a soft cocoon that neither was in any hurry to leave. It was only when his hat bumped into her forehead that the spell was broken, though even that was softened by her laugh.

“I should go,” she whispered. “I need to go.” 

Reluctantly, she stepped back and slowly began to walk away, even if he held firm to her hand.

“Wait,” he said, finding his voice at last. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Sure you do. ‘Jacqueline’.” She felt him squeeze her finger tips in equal amounts of impatience and encouragement. Almost giddy at how events had unfolded, she said, “‘Sloane’.”

He immediately filed away the information. “Jack Sloane from Sacramento.”

“That’s right, Leroy Jethro Gibbs from Stillwater.” His eyebrow arched. “You’re not the only one with access to secret information, remember?”

“I’ll be usin’ that to track you down when I get home,” he warned and vowed.

“I hope you will.”

Pleased with the possibilities, he finally let go, and she disappeared into the fog that was starting to lift.

…..

-end


End file.
